


Think About the Sun

by heresy_in_fair



Category: Pippin - Schwartz/Hirson
Genre: Actors, F/M, Internal Conflict, Internal Monologue, Love, basically it's pippin's internal thoughts as he decides whether or not to jump in the fire, i have no clue how to tag this, im TRYING to figure out how to tag this, oh i give up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:47:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25211881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heresy_in_fair/pseuds/heresy_in_fair
Summary: Pippin doesn’t know how he got here.Well, logically, he does. He supposes someone must have given him chalk, led him over to the swings. He can feel the itchy rope beneath his fingers. He probably stepped onto the swing, one foot and then the other, the left first, because if he knows one thing, it’s that left is his dominant side.(From up in the air, Pippin contemplates his choices)
Relationships: Pippin (Pippin)/Catherine (Pippin), did i REALLY just have to create that tag... cmon guys
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	Think About the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> me? having a consistent writing style? it's less likely than you think. this started out as an exercise to get myself to stop relying on dialogue so heavily, but then i actually kind of liked it!

Pippin doesn’t know how he got here.

Well, logically, he does. He supposes someone must have given him chalk, led him over to the swings. He can feel the itchy rope beneath his fingers. He probably stepped onto the swing, one foot and then the other, the left first, because if he knows one thing, it’s that left is his dominant side.

Which is rather fitting, isn’t it? Nothing he does is right, everything starts where it feels natural and ends up crooked and _wrong._ Knives and cages and, if he’s lucky, a dead duck. 

Pippin doesn’t know, either, who he is. He knows he is Pippin, because that’s what they’ve told him, and they have sung at him, serenaded him, cajoled him until it all came to a head here and he realized that he was lost. But he also knows he was someone else before this all started. He wonders whether that person is irretrievably gone; when the circus packs up and leaves, all that remains is the name Pippin, a name that’s foreign and familiar all at once.

Pippin looks down at the scene beneath him, at the fire raging and the faces surrounding it. They’re singing, mouths wide, eyes fierce and trained on him. He can’t hear anything over the rushing in his ears and the whirlwind in his brain. It’s all too loud, too much, and he wanted something glorious, he wanted to be the sun, he wanted to live a life of wonder but _not like this._ Not a life where he’s stuck wondering who he is, and how he got here, and what he’s going to do.

There was something else, too, something he’s forgetting. A reason to jump, or not jump. The duck was connected to it, perhaps, or maybe that was the knives, he’s not quite sure about the order of things. If you treasure a knife it becomes sharper. If you treasure a duck it becomes dead. 

Something about the duck slows his racing heart, lowers the rushing in his head, and Pippin can hear the words being hurled at him now. _Think about the sun, Pippin._ The sun doesn’t mean anything to him anymore, he thinks dimly, but then he remembers the _son,_ and oh, that’s what he was forgetting. The boy, the woman, the duck, and the knowledge that staying any longer would only make it more painful when he was ripped away.

They are still singing below him (do they ever get tired of singing?), the words piercing his heart: _think about her golden glance._ Pippin thinks of Catherine. He knows it isn’t her real name, and he must remember to ask, but whatever it is, gold is an apt word to use. Gold is the color of all things precious: metals, hair glinting in the sunlight, hay reluctantly pushed into stacks, candles glinting on a cake.

Pippin can’t remember the last time he truly had a choice in his fate. He supposes he must have chosen to join this group of acrobats and actors with terrifying faces, but he has no clear memory of it. And he’s pretty sure that this isn’t supposed to be a choice, either; they aren’t asking, they’re _telling,_ and if things were just a bit different, shifted to the right a few spaces, he’d be devoured in flames by now.

And yet, somehow, this feels like a choice. It seems strange to think of now, after everything, but perhaps he can walk away. Perhaps he could have walked away all along, but why would he have? This was what he wanted.

Pippin finds himself moving, listing forward, then back, and in an instant, his heart stops. Somehow he’s realized now, as he hurls towards his death, that he wants life. And Pippin finds that he doesn’t care if he is giving up a chance to be extraordinary; he thinks, now, that it is better to be ordinary and happy than extraordinary and gone. Pippin finds himself moving, but before he can scream he is dangling by his arms, over the safe earth, a few feet back from the hungry fire. He lets himself drop to the floor and he feels _grounded_ for once in his life. Around him, the rest of the troupe begs for him to get back on the swing, tugging at his hair and jacket, but Pippin barely sees them.

He looks beyond the group of desperate performers, searching, searching - there. The boy, the woman. The duck isn’t there because it’s dead, but Pippin thinks that perhaps the three of them come as a package deal. A ghost duck, maybe. He almost smiles at the thought, and is it pathetic to say this might be the first time he’s smiled of his own accord in years? He smiles when the script tells him to, his screams and yells and pleads and laughs all painstakingly italicized in the stage directions.

Pippin meets Theo’s eyes, nods reassuringly, and looks up to Catherine, and now he’s the one being reassured. Love is not a word he wants to utter lightly. Love, glory, joy, magic, these are things that have been held against him before, forced into his ears and mouth. They should taste of violence, loss, failure, and for the most part, they do. But love- _love,_ Pippin thinks, rolling the word around in his head. It’s true, he loves Catherine, and Theo, and the duck they lost. Love- he could build a life out of that one little word.

Pippin knows that he is saying something to the players, an explanation maybe, but he is mostly focused on Catherine. He walks up to her and puts his hands on her face and feels her smile, and they were right about her _golden glance,_ and _how she lights the world up._ Pippin finishes explaining himself, and he falls silent because maybe he doesn’t really need to do that anyway. Maybe this is just his choice, and that’s enough.

Somehow, while he was looking at Catherine, the tent has been struck. The lights are off, the floor is bare, the music echoes one last time and quiets, and they’re alone. They’re alone. Pippin can’t remember the last time there wasn’t a player leaning around the corner, watching his every move, judging his performance. 

Pippin dimly remembers asking for more light, and wishing for more light, and being given more light. Now, in the almost-dark, he can see more clearly than he has in years, decades, centuries. Pippin doesn’t really know how long he’s been in this story, doesn’t know how many times he’s been standing here in the almost-dark with the woman and the boy and the ghost of the dead duck. 

At the corner of the tent, an opening flaps in the wind, and through it, Pippin catches a glimpse of a sunrise. He can’t recall the last time he saw sunlight, instead of just stage lights beating down on him. Catherine and Theo look toward the sunrise, faces set. Pippin knows this won’t be easy. He doesn’t even know who he is anymore, which certainly complicates things, but the important thing is that he had a choice, and he made a choice, and he made it for love, so what does having it _easy_ matter anyway?

Pippin grasps both of their hands, and they head towards the morning glow.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!! <3 
> 
> if somehow you're not here from tumblr, come find me there @heresy-in-fair (i was going to link it but couldn't figure out how to, sorry) and yell about pippin, shakespeare, or other musicals with me!! seriously, pippin is basically all i've been thinking about for the past week, to the point where i cannot concentrate on anything.
> 
> drop me a comment and i will love you forever (even if it's just to tell me that there was really no point to this fic! well, maybe don't do that.)


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